“If our dreams can last, then we could turn our time and place to gold” BW Powe

Monthly Archives: July 2018

I was in prison
unjustly jailed (I thought)
I asked for my freedom
The jailer refused
What was my crime I asked
Everything he said
Confused and angry
I wrote a letter to you

I received a lamp
a drawing made of lines and circles
a book with empty pages –some pencils-
a shawl and a cup for rain

these and the little food I was given
through the slot in the steel door
I read into the dark
reflected on the drawing
I wrote our shapes like letters
in the morning in your blank book
I prayed and kept warm by the lamp
and in the shawl then I fasted
drinking only from the small cup
filled with water that seeped into my cell

By day I became calm and happy
By night I drew and read more
Soon I saw between your lines
an open space and a silence
I saw the lines
become a shape like a map

Your map took me
to the crack in the floor
I scratched and dug there
By day I prayed and read
By night I learned how to dig
my way forward
slowly displacing the dirt
out the small barred window

When I came at last into
the sudden air the wind
the breath beyond the lines
the breathing behind the map
I knew the story lived in my hands
I stood up
What would I do now
with a soul